THE bread and butter pickles.
it stormed all day. it's cool. Pickles. perfect timing.
recipe of my mother, my aunt Francis, from their mother, Katrin Marie Ludvinka of Moravia or Czechoslovakia or Czech Republic now. and for the first time…how interesting…it occurred to me that there was a woman before Katrin. And probably a woman before her. I'd never thought of that.
I remember. Standing on a chair at my aunt's stove at her summer home in northern Michigan. She and my mother talking. I remember going to the place where the people grew the cucumbers and them sorting through them, taking only the smallest.
they are sliced no more than the width of a dime…the cucumbers and onions.
the jars are not, NOT…. processed. This is the secret. The liquid is brought to a boil and the cucumbers and onions added. Slowly heated until
there are tiny bubbles rising to the surface. NO MORE. Do NOT boil. Do NOT even simmer. Only and just to the point of the tiny bubbles. That was my job. To stand on the chair at the stove and stare into the pot, watching for those bubbles and Calling Out. it was a huge responsibility.
so you fill the hot sterile jars. no processing. no one has died from them over my lifetime and they are the most crisp and excellent bread and butter pickles on this planet. You cannot open a jar until Thanksgiving. That's the Law. My mother used to monitor the consumption. Just so much. They were like gold, like jewels. Like…well…treasure. I can eat a whole pint in a couple days. and I can, now, because i am the boss of me.
windthread 
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